


At Your Feet, Salt & Sweet, Spoiled

by ChampagneSly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-29
Updated: 2012-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 06:24:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A trio of ficlets (originally posted to tumblr) from Denmark's perspective, using the present tense and more romance and softness than ever when it comes to these two. Snippets of domesticity and peace. Nothing dramatic, just the day to day intimacy of familiarity and how they come together despite their differences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Your Feet, Salt & Sweet, Spoiled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kosame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kosame/gifts).



**I. At Your Feet**

To be damned sure, Denmark adores Norway in almost all his many moods. Whether its the viciousness of his passion or the occasionally amusing and endearing slurs of drunk affection, Denmark has always been game for trying on and clinging to the vast unexplored stretches of Norway’s silent complexity. He likes, no _—_ _loves—_ every twist and turn of Norway’s countenance, even when Norge’s feelings are sharp and his words sting. Hell, Denmark thinks fondly as Norway settles on the floor between his knees without speaking a single word, the only thing he doesn’t like after centuries of wanting everything Norway’s willing to give is when Norge goes away.

They’ve been together and not-together and together again so many times and for so long, Denmark believes that now, in the waning light of an early summer evening, surrounded by all the amenities of a life that has so little in common with the violence and awesome vivacity of their lost and conquering youth…that maybe now he’s finally got just a little bit of the Norway puzzle put together properly. In these days of peace and prosperity, when he’s got all the time in the world and try and fail and sometimes succeed at figuring out the ways to make Norway want to stay, Denmark feels pretty damned lucky to have had the chance to touch his roughened hands to the softness that Norge has always tried so hard to hide. 

He’s learned enough now to recognize the tiredness in the slump of Norway’s shoulders as they curl in front of his legs, hunched from too many hours spent at a computer or bearing the weight of some bullshit that probably won’t matter in a week, but Norge’s always been that way, so secretly concerned and considerate. As he gazes out Norway’s living room windows to admire the pinking clouds on a sky that too often reminds him of Norway’s eyes, Denmark feels fortunate to have discovered that even though Norge might hiss and call him “idiot” when he tries to lighten the mood with his special brand of humor, his little beast still circles his ankles and asks without asking for his comfort and care.

The night is so still he can hear that little wheeze in Norway’s breathing, (that familiar hitch that’s been there since the 14th century when Denmark was so terrified Norge might disappear entirely) and there’s nothing but the sound of birds and the ticking clock to keep them company as Norway sighs almost inaudibly and leans his exhaustion against the welcome of Denmark’s knees. It is hard for him to say nothing, to leave Norway alone in his quiet and to his thoughts, but he trusts that words will be whispered later and gives Norge what he wants, just as he always has. 

Gently, he takes the pin from Norway’s hair, kissing the familiar shape before he sets it beside him on the couch for safe keeping, knowing that come morning metal will glint once more as they drink coffee and Norway scowls at him for burning the toast. And when he pushes his long and often too eager fingers against Norway’s scalp and through the fine blond strands of hair, Norway melts a little and softens silently within the span of his hands. As he strokes Norway’s hair and hums a song he thinks he once kinda knew, Denmark holds fast to this moment of sweetness and feels glad that he’s the one who gets to listen to breathless sighs of satisfaction and ease unnamed stresses. 

He knows he’d share any burden Norway had to carry, if he could. Its a romantic thought and he lets it dance on the tip of his tongue for a moment, knowing that if he let it slip, Norge would probably call him ridiculous and so he saves those feelings within the curve of the happy smile he’s going to brush over every inch of Norway’s skin once they’ve gone to bed. 

(Norway’s always read him best when he speaks their shared language).

Instead, he closes his eyes and concentrates on the feeling of Norway’s hair between his fingers and the way his shoulder blades dig sharply into his shins and the warmth of Norway’s cheek when he boldly dares to brush a thumb down the length of his jaw. Norway is so quiet and so still that Denmark wonders if perhaps he’s fallen asleep and feels such fondness that he can’t help but lean over to take in the sight of Norge’s slack and restful expression. The parting of lips so often set in a frown is so damned tempting he’s two seconds away from kissing the hitched breaths that fall from Norway’s pretty mouth and whispering, “ _I love you.”_

Just as the temptation grows too much to withstand (because he’s always been a little weak and maybe just a bit impulsive when it comes to this age old affection), he’s suddenly confronted with the blue of a Norwegian sky as Norge’s eyes flutter open and his lips curl into a knowing smirk. 

“Try not to pull so hard,” Norway says lowly, voice so roughened it sounds like he hasn’t spoken in weeks and Denmark feels possessive and protective of the vulnerable warmth that rides under the taunt. 

Denmark slides all ten fingers into Norway’s hair and tilts his head back just enough so he can curve his neck and press a kiss to Norway’s forehead and the momentary wrinkle of his consternation. He leaves his lips against smooth skin and closes his eyes as he murmurs happily, “I’ll be more gentle. Unless you want me to stop.”

“Don’t stop,” Norway whispers and Denmark has no choice but to taste the sweetness of those words on Norge’s lips, even if just for the second that it takes to kiss that soft, barely there smile and promise,

“I never will.”

(This one has [lovely fanart](http://deheerkonijn.tumblr.com/post/23594476555/ficlet-at-your-feet-dennor-fluff-or-something) to go with it courtesy of deheerkonijn on Tumblr).  
  
**II. Salt & Sweet**  


On any given day, Denmark would cheerfully admit to having a weakness when it came to Norway. After all, it wasn’t really much of a secret, that this heart he’d worn on his sleeve for too many centuries belonged to the wild and beautiful territories to the North, even when the coastline he loved no longer wanted to receive him. And though it often resulted in being on the receiving end of pointed words and pointed teeth, Denmark felt no shame in confessing his sins to the object of his affections. Who wouldn’t want to hear their praises sung, even if his lyrics weren’t terribly lofty and sometimes a little off-key?

(Besides, he never had been much good at subtle, though his Norge had always been far too skilled at cultivating that aura of mystery and wonder).

But on a day like today, sailing the cold waters of the North Sea with clear skies and the sweetness of the summer sun, when something in Norge opens wide like horizon, Denmark finds there aren’t words to express the joy and desire and contentment that would drown him as surely as the waves that buoy their boat if it weren’t for the thousand years of practice of surviving this weakness.

It is rare, he knows, for Norway to smile without reservation, to turn all the sharp angles of his face towards the sea with such an expression of satisfaction even while barking orders at Denmark. Denmark knows he should probably pay better attention to the rigging or to the direction of the mainsail, but its damned difficult to take his eyes away from the pale curve of Norway’s back and the silvery scars on his bare shoulders that remind him of all the history they’ve shared. Denmark wonders if he’s been spending too much time around sappy Sweden when he looks at Norway and thinks that the sun’s in his hair and the ocean is in his eyes, and thanks whatever god is listening that he’s sober enough to keep that kind of shit to himself, lest Norge refuse to ever go on a date like this again.

Instead of reflecting on not so transient beauty, Denmark lets the ropes slide through his fingers and keeps his eyes on the flex of Norway’s muscles and daydreams about longboats. Norway shoots him an unimpressed glare when the rigging goes too slack and Denmark smirks and licks his lips remembering the taste of power on Norway’s tongue after a particularly good run on England’s place. Norge looks so assured, so viciously controlled as he steers their tiny craft through the waves, that he almost expects Norge to turn around and threaten to whip him for in-subornation as the boat tips and water splashes over Norway’s pretty toes. Unable to keep cheerful amusement from coloring his apology, he shouts his “sorry, Norge!” over the wind in a language that died a lifetime ago. 

To his pleasure, Norway smiles a little, eyes narrowing knowingly as he growls insults in those same rough and guttural words that used to put gorgeous fear into the hearts of lesser men. Denmark laughs and laughs, yelping when Norway slaps his chest repeatedly with the flat of his palm, lamenting that he doesn’t have a better method to beat the idiot out of Denmark. To his even greater pleasure, Norway surprises him by pressing his lips just once over the warm and reddening mark left by his love taps before shoving him overboard.

The first thing he sees when he pops up from the frigid waves, still laughing while he coughs and clings to the edge of the boat, is the small curve of Norway’s smile, as endearing and damning as ever.

(It is not so endearing that he doesn’t promptly drag Norge into a wet and cold hug as soon as he’s managed to climb back into boat, stealing the warmth from Norway’s skin and sharing the chill of the sea until there is no choice but to let go and get back to the task of making sure they return to shore in one piece.)

Later, when they are on shore, Denmark gives in easily when Norway shakes the water from his hair and coolly informs him that Denmark will be responsible for driving  home that evening and as such he will be responsible for drinking the beer that Denmark brought for the picnic. While the feeling of cold lager down a parched throat is pretty damned amazing, Denmark figures forgoing is a worthy sacrifice for the pleasure of watching the shift and ripple of Norway’s throat as he swallows, lips wrapped smug and tight around around the neck of the bottle. Denmark suspects that Norge is showing off a little, reveling in Denmark’s easy acquiescence to his wishes and tempting Denmark with what he can and can’t have. Denmark wouldn’t have minded a bit of a buzz under the evening sun, but he feels a hum under his skin from the sight of Norge’s sunburned shoulders and the stain of booze on his cheeks, pink and pretty just like tip of his tongue.

There’s something inspiring in that (though maybe Norge has always just made him feel a little hungry, a little greedy), so Denmark leaves Norway to his pilfered beer and smug satisfaction to go in search of a sweeter treat. He pillages the snack bar and returns with ice-cream running down his fingers. It’s not beer, it tastes pretty damned great after a day at sea, and Denmark can’t help but feel tickled by the way Norway’s eyes narrow in on his mouth as he eats. And even though Norge rolls his eyes and calls him a child, Denmark still bends down and lets Norway lick obscenely at the scoop of vanilla until he makes a face and declares that beer and ice-cream were clearly never meant to be together. 

Denmark smiles and decides he has to test Norge’s theory on unexpected pairings and chases the taste of bitter and sweet in Norway’s mouth. It warms him, a little, the way Norway’s lips part for him so quickly, so breathlessly, and he fancies he can feel the happy looseness of an evening spent together in easy indulgence in the slide of Norway’s tongue over his. Its so good,  Denmark kisses him until the ice-cream melts and in his rush to push Norway down to the ground and kiss him some more, he inadvertently gets it all over Norway’s sunburned shoulders and in his hair.

He wonders if Norge is a little drunker than he thought when his little beast says nothing about the dessert now adorning his skin and only murmurs that he thinks it is time to make the long trek home. Denmark knows for certain that Norge is a little drunker than he thought when he offers a hand to pull him up from his sprawl on the shore and Norway doesn’t let go of the curl of his fingers once they’re both upright.

Surprised, but never one to question something that makes him happy, Denmark brings their sticky hands to his lips and kisses the pads of Norway’s fingers to taste ocean salt and melted sugar. Norway only sighs as though dealing with such affection is a tedious task to be endured, but his hand remains within Denmark’s hold, so Denmark goes for broke and kisses him six more times between the beach and the car, easily dodging Norway’s tipsy attempts at jabbing him in the gut with his pointy elbow.

He shuffles Norway into the passenger seat and spends a good two minutes crouched behind the open door kissing Norway’s warm and soft mouth for as long as he’ll allow, reluctant to release the tangle of their hands and lose the peace and pleasure of the day. Too soon (but, hell, it is always too soon for Denmark when it comes to this sort of thing), Norge breaks free and attempts a scowl that is adorably betrayed by the tongue that licks away the remnants of a damned good kiss.

It is a hard thing to not want to give those lips even less reason to frown, but Denmark takes the closing of Norway’s eyes and the sudden freedom of his right hand as a sign that his majesty would like to go home. Without too much regret, Denmark files away thoughts of kissing Norway until his mouth has gone as red as his cheeks and shoulders for another time and starts up the car. Norge is silent and still like a lake in the early hours of the morning, and Denmark leaves the radio off, content for once to keep Norway’s calm for company.

Instead Denmark thinks of the shape of Norway’s smile and he way Norway laughs just like he cares, quietly and deeply when he thinks no one is listening.

He almost veers off the narrow road when Norway’s hand covers his while he tries to shift into higher gear. Denmark casts his gaze at his companion, but the cagey bastard still has his best serene expression firmly in place. Denmark looks at their hands and thinks that only Norge would express affection when he couldn’t possibly return the gesture for fear of stalling the damned car.

It is so Norge, this awkward and sweet gesture, that Denmark says nothing and turns his smile back to the road and drives with the feeling that a part of his heart has decided to take up residence in his throat. The rest of his heart relocates in the moment they reach the freeway when Norge takes advantage of his freedom from shifting gears to bring Denmark’s hand to his lips and scrape his teeth over Denmark’s knuckles.

Denmark thinks this is as close to an “I love you,” as he’s ever heard.

He wonders if perhaps Norway has a weakness for him, too.  
  
**III. Spoiled**

Denmark wakes up with a yawn that is followed immediately by suspicion and disappointment when his greedy hand finds no sleepy and soft Norwegian skin within touching distance. The discovery that he is alone on his side of Norway’s bed startles him to shaking off the cling of sleep as he opens his eyes to confirm the very sad lack of mussed hair on the other pillow. He had hoped to take advantage of the rare opportunity to sleep in together and spend the early moments of the morning rousing Norge with slow touches down his back and little kisses pressed to a scowling, unimpressed mouth that would sooner or later call him “ _Idiot_ ” and breathlessly demand “ _more_.”

But Denmark has always been proud of his ability to adapt and seek out new opportunities, so he rolls out of bed and searches for a pair of shorts so as not to scare any neighbors who might chance peering through the window and catching a full moon. Besides, he thinks as he brushes his teeth and splashes water over his already smiling face, he’s too damned curious as to what could possibly have compelled his lazy weekend beast to wake up early and leave him alone with cold sheets and sweet dreams.

He is always, always curious when it comes to the secrets that Norge keeps when he’s not around. 

Denmark discovers Norway in the kitchen and he pauses in the open doorway to appreciate the slipping of Norway’s pajama pants down the lovely curve of his bottom and the tangled mess of Norway’s pretty hair. For a moment, he quietly watches Norway stirring eggs in a pan and smiles when the sound of Norway’s absent humming reaches his ears.

His attempt at spying fails miserably when Norway looks over his shoulder and gives him a familiar and endearing frown of good morning. Denmark strides across the smooth wood of the kitchen floor to loop his arm around Norway’s shoulder and take a peek at what’s cooking, stomach rumbling appreciatively even as Norge huffs and tries to drive him off with an elbow to that same hungry stomach. 

Denmark barely gets out his sunshine and roses kind of good morning before he gets silenced as Norge falls back on old tactics of distraction and kisses him quiet. Denmark wonders if Norge suspects that Denmark insists on trying to talk so early in the day because it always ends like this, with the slow and sweet punishment of lazy kisses from not a morning person. He likes it when Norway steals the words from his tongue and swallows them whole. It is the best damned way to be told to shut up, so Denmark seeks out every chance he can to have Norway kiss him silent.

He thinks Norge is spoiling him a little this morning, kissing him until he can’t taste the mint of his toothpaste over the bitterness of the coffee Norway likes to drink, and there’s nothing left but the taste of them. It is only the sizzle and pop from the pan that finally rends Norway’s attentions and Denmark finds he’s content to press his smile against Norge’s throat while the chef finishes his work. The eggs look almost as tempting as the curve of Norway’s tiny smile and though neither of them can claim to be an Italy or a France, he’s been eating Norway’s cooking for a thousand years and as long as Norge keeps on offering, he’ll keep right on taking. 

“Is any of that for me?” He asks teasingly, kissing the spot just beneath Norge’s ear that never fails to earn him a whisper of pleasure. 

Norway reaches for the plates, the arch of his back stretching against Denmark’s chest  as he murmurs lowly, “Have you done something to deserve the fruits of my labor?”

“Hey now, I’m always happy to earn my keep,” Denmark protests cheerfully, demonstrating his willingness by reaching around Norway’s body to fumble for cutlery in the second drawer from the top, sending two forks clattering to the counter. 

Norway looks over his shoulder, a faint smirk on his pretty lips as he answers coolly, “If that’s true, then I am happy to share.”

And though his voice still has that measure of disinterest and disdain, in the softness of Norge’s expression and in the easy lean of his body into the spread of always welcoming arms, Denmark reads something else entirely. 

It thrills him a little, even now, to think that Norway might mean it when he says that he is happy, that its not just scrambled eggs on toast that he wants Denmark to want, but maybe all of the intimacy implied in sides of the bed and kissing over coffee until the damned toast gets burned yet again.

When the eggs are finished, Norway sits atop of the counter and stares out the window while he eats and says nothing. Denmark leaves him to his quiet contemplation of the kind of gray skies he’s always found just perfect for spending hours tangled in the sheets. Instead of speaking, instead of giving into the constant impulse to steal all of Norge’s attention, he takes pleasure in the taste of the food and the soft touch of Norway’s foot against his leg, cold little toes rubbing idly at his calf. 

“This is good,” Denmark offers quietly, smiling around his fork. 

Norge doesn’t even look at him, still giving away his gaze to the world outside the kitchen window, Denmark hears him nonetheless when he murmurs, “Yes, it is.”

The whole mood is so still and placid, that it throws him for the briefest of seconds when Norway sets down his plate and abruptly pulls Denmark between the spread of his knees. Norge’s hands are cold against his chest but his lips are warm and soft, a salty slow kiss that makes him crave another kind of breakfast entirely. He recovers his senses enough to push his half finished plate of food to the side and slide his tongue into Norway’s ready and willing mouth. He doesn’t waste time wondering what’s gotten into Norway this morning, wondering what good deed he’s done to deserve this rare and delicious treat of fingers tracing circles on his skin and legs wrapped around his waist. 

If he’s learned anything in his many years of trial and error when it comes to Norge, he’s learned to speak less and listen more, even when Norway is saying nothing at all. 

Denmark sure as hell doesn’t always get it right and sometimes Norway’s too damned cagey and cold, but in moments like this, Denmark happily understands the silent command that they go back to bed. He abandons pots and pans and the sad mess of eggs unfinished to splay his hands under Norway’s thin shirt and haul him close. 

It is a tenuous thing, the slow shuffle to the bedroom with Norge heavy and warm in his arms, biting at his throat as though wishing to see how much Denmark could take without dropping his precious and vicious burden. But carrying Norge has never been a burden at all, so Denmark makes it down the narrow hallway and once more into the still darkened bedroom.

He laughs when Norway chooses the exact moment his feet hit the ground to remember all his strength and tumble Denmark to the rumpled sheets, sliding between the welcoming spread of Denmark’s thighs to chase away his laughter with kisses. Denmark closes his eyes and takes Norway’s face between his hands, cradling Norge’s body between his thighs and his palms, keeping him near while he’s stripped bare by cold fingers. 

He listens to Norway’s kisses and the gentle insistence of the hands pressed low and hot beneath his legs and feels  lucky to be so spoiled. He’s damned certain that Norway probably thinks he’s spoiling himself by taking his good sweet time opening up Denmark’s body and making Denmark gleefully beg for more, but he is also damned certain it is just grand that they can spoil each other so well. 

Norway kisses him as deeply as he takes him, lacing their fingers on the pillow as he slides his tongue in his mouth and brings them ever closer together in the way that’s best for gray and sallow mornings.  Denmark fills the silence with sighs and happy moans, holding Norway within his hands and within his body and within his heart, listening to every word Norway doesn’t say as he’s loved with touch and taste.

And when Norway lets him breathe by abandoning his lips to leave marks of his affection along the curve of his neck, Denmark whispers and murmurs all the dirty and wonderful dreams he keeps for Norway and Norway alone. He doesn’t stop his litany of moaned praise until Norge is arching over him, messy hair falling over his lovely and flushed face as he rolls his eyes and tells Denmark to shut-up.

Denmark takes great pleasure in licking around the words, “Make me.” 

And when it is over, when Norway has collapsed slick and trembling, draping his heavy and satisfied body over Denmark’s racing heart, Denmark kisses the soft shell of Norway’s ear and tells him once more, “This is good.” 

The hands still holding his tighten when Norway spoils him just a little more with the whispered return of his affection, “Yes, it is.”


End file.
